Stay
by EnchantedApril
Summary: Cameron's fellowship ends and House doesn't know why he asks her to stay or why she does, and he still doesn't know what he's doing with her. Their relationship in five parts... PART FIVE IS UP... Thank you all for your comments. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**The beginning of this story came to me as I was lying half asleep in bed one morning last week. It stayed in my mind long enough that I felt I needed to write it out just to get it out of my head. It's a different style for me, but I'm enjoying seeing things from House's view, especially since I so often write of Cameron's feelings and thoughts. It will only be five parts, so it should go quickly. I hope you all enjoy it. Let me know what you think. **

**Stay**

I.

Most people assume that you and she started dating just before her fellowship ran out. What other reason would she have to stay and put up with your abuse? At the time you weren't quite sure yourself. You asked her to stay (mumbled the word while she was packing up her desk) and she looked up at you with a piercing look you normally only saw reflected in windows and glass doors over idiots' shoulders. She demanded more money and a bigger desk. Apparently no one else noticed when the maintenance men came to replace her flimsy workstation with one bigger than yours.

Three months later and Wilson's divorce became final the same day your most recent patient, a nine year old girl, died. You heard Wilson and Cameron talking about going out for a drink and weren't sure who would be comforting who, you just knew you didn't like the idea either way. You showed up at the same bar, coincidentally/on-purpose, and shoved yourself into their booth. Of course you had to sit next to her because sitting next to Wilson would make people think you were gay.

You don't remember much about that night because you drank more than both of them and Wilson had to practically carry you out of the place. You don't think you threw up in his car. He would have reminded you about that. He did tell you the next day that if you didn't stop fucking around he wouldn't be responsible for what happened. You didn't really think he was serious, because "bros before hos" and all that. He'd cheat on a wife but not on you. You figured he was just trying to give you a kick in the ass and you told him as much and told him you didn't appreciate it. You weren't quite that polite about it.

But then another month passed and even though your newest patient would live, you invited (bribed) Cameron into going out for a quick drink. Half-way through the first drink you realized that you didn't know what the hell you were doing sitting there with her across from you in her pale pink sweater-set, looking tired and cautious, and swirling the ice in her girly whisky sour. The next three drinks went down fast and before you knew it, she was helping you outside and folding you into her car. You kept poking her with your cane and telling her you were fine, and she grabbed it and tossed it into the back seat. Falling asleep while she drove wasn't part of your plan, but then again there had never really been a plan.

The next morning the sun burned your eyes before they were even open. You squinted around the room and were surprised that Cameron wasn't sitting vigil beside your bed. That's when you realized she'd grown past that. You were the one still mired in assumptions and bad clichés and Wilson was right. If you didn't stop fucking around, you'd regret it. You had enough regrets already, but you still didn't know what the hell you were doing and when you strode into the office two hours late and wearing sunglasses, you didn't feel like the cool anti-hero. You felt old.

A week later and she made it easy for you.

It was after five, but you had nowhere better to be so you were still sitting at your desk with your iPod blaring early Rolling Stones into your ears. You were still feeling old, but Mick Jagger could always be counted on to put things in perspective and you liked the fact that he was older than you and still a chick magnet. It made you feel better about yourself to know that at least your face didn't look like a bobble-head doll that had been left near an open flame.

Mick was just getting to the best part of 'Satisfaction' when she walked in, chin set at a defiant angle and lab coat slapping at her bare calves. She'd worn a skirt and you'd been distracted all day. You thought about releasing some of that tension by making a lewd comment, but settled on giving her a look that you hoped mixed boredom and irritation to perfection. Hopefully she'd just leave. She hadn't mentioned your little drinks date and you were hoping she'd leave well enough alone. You hadn't decided what you were going to do about it. After all, it had only been a week.

Four years, four and a half months and one week.

She stood in front of you and just stared at you with those big storm-colored eyes of hers and you realized that she wasn't going to just turn and leave.

You tugged on the thin wire running from your ears and the Rolling Stones tumbled to your lap, a classic guitar riff whispering into the air.

"Yes?" you tried to sound disinterested.

"I'm tired," she said then, and although her stance didn't match her words, the slight tightness around her mouth did.

"Then go home. Problem solved."

"I'm tired of this," she clarified, waving a thin hand between the two of you, but of course you didn't really needed clarification. You knew exactly what she was talking about.

The screen on your iPod suddenly demanded your attention, and you glanced down at it while you mumbled, "Don't think I can help you there."

Apparently she wasn't going to accept that for an answer because suddenly she was in your space, leaning over you with her hands on the armrests of your chair.

"No, you probably can't. That's why I decided to cut to the chase," she said.

You had to admit that you were surprised that her voice wasn't shaking and that her eyes were still boring into yours.

"Chase? I think he left about a year ago. His forwarding address is probably in the computer," you said because you were a master of deflection in times of uncomfortable personal intimacy.

It worked at least a little, you thought, because she rolled her eyes and pushed off from your chair, but she stayed just inches away. You could feel the warmth of her leg crossing the air to yours.

"You asked me to stay."

"I needed an immunologist."

"You followed Wilson and me when we went out, even though it was completely innocent."

"That was a coincidence."

"You insisted we go out for drinks and then you got drunk before you could make your move."

She had you there.

"I'm not sure what that move was going to be," she continued. "Maybe you were just playing with me the same way you did when I first came here. Maybe you just didn't like the idea of me finally losing interest for good."

Her voice was starting to get that little nervous pitch to it and you almost, almost, almost made a move to shut her down with a deliberately cruel remark.

"Then again, maybe you just weren't sure how to go from asking me out for a drink to this."

The pitch was low and steady again and a moment later she was closing the distance between you and her hands were back on your armrests, and her mouth was so close you could already taste it. You angled your head up slightly and your lips touched hers, and if you'd expected something soft and tentative, you were wrong.

Her lips were warm and pliant and you couldn't let her have all the control so yours was the first tongue to sweep out, tasting coffee and lip gloss and then feeling the full heat of her mouth as she opened it slightly to allow you inside. You hadn't expected this from her. You had a brief moment to wonder how long you would have danced around her if she hadn't made this bold move. Then you stopped thinking about stupid things and concentrated on the feel of her tongue sliding against yours and probably tasting the bitterness of the Vicodin you'd taken just before she'd walked in.

Soap opera and romantic movie kisses lasted a lot longer, but you weren't characters on television or the big screen, and her back muscles probably hurt and your neck definitely ached, so you pulled apart and she stood up straight. She was running the tip of that pink tongue along her lips as you watched. You realized that you were tasting her on your lips as well. Her eyes looked darker and her breath was quicker, but she looked satisfied with herself. Almost smug. You wouldn't have thought you'd like smug on someone other than yourself.

"Well," she said, "Now we've gotten that over with."

"Yeah," was your not very intelligent reply, but luckily you were quick on the up-take. "You want to go get some Chinese food?"

You weren't sure what she'd expected, but it probably wasn't that. The smile on her face wasn't shy, demure, giddy, schoolgirlish, adoring or unrestrained. It was pleased, but cautious.

"Am I going to have to drive you home again?"

"I very rarely get drunk on Tsing-Tao," you told her.

"Then you've got a deal."

She didn't say another word; she just turned and walked into the conference room. You supposed she was going to get her coat and the rest of her things. You pushed yourself up from your chair, noting that the armrests were still warm where her hands had been. You'd meet her half-way.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm really pleased that this story received such a warm reception, especially given its slightly uncommon second-person POV. Here is the next part, which I hope you all enjoy. As to questions regarding my health… I am currently still home on a short term disability while I recuperate from surgery, and feeling a bit better every day!**

**II.**

You'd both agreed that telling anyone about your relationship would be a bad idea. You didn't even like to call it a relationship, but it sounded better than affair and after three months you were clearly past the one-night-stand moniker. Still, you weren't exactly dating either, because dating implied going out and for the most part the two of you spent all of your time together at your apartment.

You didn't even tell Wilson, but that's as much force of habit as vow of silence. He's your best friend, but that doesn't mean you tell him everything… or even anything, unless it's to your advantage. You briefly thought that you should feel guilty for keeping it from him after all his persistent nudges and hints and outright statements about you and Cameron. Then again, he kept his little romance with his patient a secret, so maybe this made you even. You doubted that he'd see it that way when it eventually came out.

So three months after that first kiss, and you were the one who was sick of the secrecy. The irony was like a swift kick in the jewels.

Her reasons for wanting to keep things quiet were rational and reasonable. You might not care about your reputation, but she worried about hers. And who were you kidding? A relationship with her could only improve your reputation. She, on the other hand, still lived in the shadow of that one ill-conceived, drugged-out night with Chase.

You never told her, and you never will, but you wanted to rip his head off and pull his spine out through his neck when you found out he'd slept with her while she was high. You'd taken the path of macho posturing to cover what you were really thinking. You hadn't wanted to admit for even a nanosecond that maybe if you'd shown the slightest bit of concern, maybe offered to take her out for a drink yourself, or hell, just refrained from being a complete asshole, then maybe she wouldn't have felt the need to spread her wings and fly the chemically induced skyways.

That was all in the past, but clearly she still thought about it because she cited it as one of the reasons for keeping silent. She didn't want to be known as the whore of PPTH, which was a pretty reasonable request. You thought that part of it was also that she didn't want the looks of pity to be directed her way when this thing between you inevitably ended. You weren't sure why, but it pissed you off to think that she was already expecting that and then you reminded yourself that you were the one foisting that thought off on her when she hadn't said anything of the sort.

At first you readily agreed with her plan to keep things secret ,so it irritated you that you were the one to rethink the arrangement. It wasn't as if you wanted to shout the news from the rooftop. Hell no. You were just sick of having to tip-toe around the situation. Just that morning you caught yourself asking her if she was in the mood for Chinese and then you noticed that Mason, your resident neurologist, was in the corner fixing himself a cup of coffee. You had to cover with a quip about being hungry half an hour after eating it and then telling her to go check and see if your patient had any appetite problems.

You thought about asking Wilson for advice, but that would entail telling him what's been going on for the past three months, and you weren't in the mood to see his face light up like a pre-teen schoolgirl's or to hear him whine because you didn't tell him sooner.

Cameron walked in just as you were about to finish the final level of your game and before you'd formed any response to the words you knew were going to come from her mouth.

"Nice save with Mason," she said with one hand on her hip and sarcasm on her tongue. Okay, that wasn't exactly what you thought she was going to say. "If you aren't careful, everyone's going to find out." Ah, yes, that's more like it.

So what was there to say? You're sorry? You don't care who knows? You're tired of worrying about being caught playing grab-ass in the lab?

"Wasn't thinking," is what you muttered while beginning to feel some resentment that she put you in this position.

"We promised. Remember?" As if you could forget.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Necessary discretion. Professional demeanor. I've heard the speech."

She looked surprised at your grumpiness. "What? I thought you were thrilled that I didn't announce our relationship status through the hospital PA system. You sure as hell didn't want anyone to know last time."

"Last time I expected it to be one damn date and I didn't want to get crap about it."

She looked annoyed and offended in equal measure. That's how West found you when he came in to give you some lab results.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, as if it wasn't obvious.

"As a matter of fact you are," you said forcefully, stabbing your cane down onto the floor and rising from your chair. "Cameron and I are having a lover's quarrel, so if you could give us fifteen minutes of peace, that'd be great. Of course if the lab results are urgent, you shouldn't be asking if you're interrupting, you should just be shoving them at me."

West looked from you to Cameron and back again, and then he just dropped the lab papers on your desk and started backing away. You weren't sure if he believed you or not, but he definitely looked suspicious. Maybe the rumor mill had already been hard at work.

"No. Nothing urgent," was his response as he reached for the door.

"Good," you shouted after him. "And remember to tell everyone that we've been screwing for three months. Wouldn't want to spread false information."

Cameron's eyes appeared to have turned to ice and her tiny fists were balled up inside her pockets but you could still see them outlined in the crisp white of her lab coat. You could count the knuckles if you wanted to.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked, and you're surprised that she's so angry.

You never thought about her being angry because it so rarely happened. Upset, frustrated, annoyed, exasperated? Yes. Angry? No. You could probably count the instances of true anger on one hand and now this is upping the number.

"I'm clearing the air," you said and then thought that perhaps flippant wasn't quite the right tone to take with her.

"You know it's going to be all over the hospital in half an hour."

"Probably sooner."

"And you don't care at all."

"Why should I?"

"Why should you? Why should you?" she started getting louder and you wondered if Wilson could hear her voice carrying through the open door and across your connected balconies.

"Maybe because I didn't want everyone to find out yet. Especially like this! Maybe it doesn't bother you, but I don't feel like having my professionalism questioned."

"Why didn't it bother you three years ago when you first bribed that date out of me?" you countered, and that shut her up for a second.

She started looking upset and you hated that look. You remembered when you used to be immune to it.

"I was a lot younger then."

"Three years, to be exact," you said. "Come on, Cameron. Do you honestly believe that no one's suspected anything? I guarantee you that people have been making bets since you first agreed to stay past your fellowship."

Her lips pressed together and she just shook her head. Never a good sign.

"So how much did you win?" she asked and you had to admit that stung.

Your face must have shown it because hers softened slightly.

"We're consenting adults," you said reasonably, and it was amazing that suddenly you were the reasonable one. "Two weeks from now, we'll be old news, and the hospital will be buzzing about whether that ass Harrison had hairplugs put in. The answer is yes, by the way."

You tried to lighten things up, but it wasn't really in your nature to be consoling and you were fairly certain that you were doing a poor job of it. That just made you pissed off that you were even trying. Why had you gotten into this relationship in the first place? You must have been temporarily insane. Oh, wait, it was the near lap-dance she gave you in your office. That was what had snared you. Goodie. That made it all her fault.

You weren't surprised when she pulled her hands out of her pockets and crossed her arms. It was her classic protective stance.

"Our patient is stable and I'm sure West's lab results are going to confirm our diagnosis of hemolytic anemia. I'm going home."

You didn't have to ask which home she meant and you sat down and turned your game back on while she walked out.

Maybe it was the hospital grapevine, or maybe Wilson had heard you fighting, but it only took fifteen minutes for him to appear in your doorway looking aggrieved.

"You and Cameron?" he asked. "And you didn't tell me?"

Yes, there it was, that wounded puppy look, barely covering an undercurrent of excitement.

You tried to stop him from going on, but short of walking out, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. Instead you were forced to listen to him giving you relationship advice for half an hour. At one point you commented that you might as well be taking sailing advice from Captain Ahab, but that didn't stop him. You had to admit that listening to him talk was better than sitting there alone and listening to your internal monologue.

When he thought he'd convinced you to drive to her place and patch things up, he gave you a pat on the shoulder (when was the last time he'd done that?) and finally left you alone. It was after five, the hemolytic anemia was confirmed and you thrust your arms into your biker jacket and headed for the elevators. Then you got on your bike and headed straight to your place where a large bottle of scotch was waiting for you.

Six hours passed and you were definitely drunk when you called her at one a.m. and she definitely didn't sound amused.

"It's one in the morning," she said and that tired sound in her voice was more than just lack of sleep.

"Wilson thinks we should make up."

"Wilson didn't just have you humiliate him and break his trust."

"Oh please. I humiliate him on a weekly basis and the fact that he had to hear about us from his nurse is proof that I've broken his trust too."

"Goodnight, Greg," she said just before she hung up, and you considered that perhaps antagonizing her wasn't the best tactic, but at least she was still calling you Greg.

If not for the alcohol, you never would have called her. You would have sat around feeling bitter and sorry for yourself and blaming her for her own troubles. You certainly wouldn't have called her a second time.

"Don't hang up."

"I'm trying to sleep."

"If you were really trying to sleep, you would have let the machine pick up." Surprisingly, even drunk, your logical mind worked well.

"Fine. What did you want to tell me?"

"I dunno."

If rolling eyes made a sound, you know you would have been able to hear hers.

"Goodnight--"

"I'm sorry." You cut her off with those two words. "Is that better?"

"It's only better if you mean it."

"Hell no, I don't mean it!" you exclaimed. "It was an accident, but I was sick of the cloak and dagger crap. I'm too old for that." And even with all the alcohol swirling in your system you were feeling particularly ancient.

"Well maybe telling me that would have been better than announcing our relationship status to the whole fourth floor," she told you flatly. "I'm going to sleep now. Don't call back."

She hung up again and you poured yourself another drink.

Half an hour later, you were sitting at your piano with one arm draped forward across the top, hand curled around your drink. The ice was making the glass sweat and it dripped onto a pile of sheet music. With your other hand you were playing the treble clef part of a Mozart sonata, except you missed every third note and it sounded more like an avant garde invention.

When the phone rang, you were surprised but you didn't consider letting the machine get it.

"I know you're not sorry, but do you even care that I'm upset?"

There it was. Your chance to end this. One snide remark and she'd hang up, and wouldn't call back. You'd be forced to interview new immunologists, but you'd done that before and it wasn't so bad.

Later, you'd blame the alcohol for your response, even though it was the truth.

"Yes," you said, the word coming out slowly and dragging its 's'.

"Why didn't you just tell me that you weren't happy?"

It was a stupid question and you thought she should have known better. Why would you have told her anything like that? You didn't talk about feelings and the two of you didn't discuss your relationship. You skirted neatly around anything that even presumed to define it. You ate together, you watched television together, you talked about everything except anything personal, and you slept together. Sometimes that word wasn't just a euphemism for sex and you just fell into bed beside one another and went to sleep. You always told yourself it was easier than thinking of an excuse to make her leave.

"Happy's a relative term," you told her, realizing even as you said it that for you, the past months actually had been happier than you'd expected. You'd never thought of happiness just being contentment and relative peace

"So is this it, then?"

Even in your intoxicated state you knew what she was asking. You were less surprised by her question than by your answer.

"No. I'm more stubborn than that, and it would be pretty stupid to call it quits now that everyone knows our dirty little secret."

"I've been happy," she said suddenly, as if in answer to your earlier statement. Apparently it was just something she wanted to let you know.

She was funny that way; always making random comments and statements and whether or not she was trying to judge your reaction to them or just making sure you knew what she was thinking, you could never tell. Maybe she felt the need to make up for your reticence.

"Yeah?" was your less than intelligent reply.

"Yeah."

"Not happy enough to spread the joy to your coworkers though."

"Involving other people didn't seem to do me any favors last time," she said, and there was the crux of the matter.

"Long time ago," you muttered, and you wished you hadn't had that last drink because alcohol always loosened your tongue. "I was an asshole."

"I thought I knew you so well I could make you tell me what I wanted to hear," was her admission.

"Whaddaya wanna hear now?"

"Nothing," she said but you knew she was lying.

"No psychoanalyzing each other this time," you said.

"I think we're past that."

"Yeah. The great sex probably made all that Freud bullshit irrelevant."

She laughed then and the fact that it made you relieved also made you want to hit something, because feeling something for her – really feeling something – had never been part of your plan. But then again, you'd never really had a plan.

"You coming over?" you asked her.

"It's two a.m."

"You coming over?"

"I suppose since everyone knows, it would be incredibly stupid to end things now," she said, repeating your earlier statement.

"I thought we'd moved past that too. We agreed that nothing's ending. Now, back to my question."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said, and hung up before you could make a snarky reply.

Somehow it made you feel better to think that she didn't sleep very well without you anymore, either. You thought about how you were always embarrassed to wake up tangled in her arms, and about the way she usually skittered away from you after her eyes opened. Neither of you had wanted to admit to needing the other. You wondered how long that was going to last. Your first fight and things weren't ending. You were surprised. You were happy.


	3. Chapter 3

**As always, thank you very much for reading, and I hope that you enjoy this part. **

**III.**

Somewhere between month three and month ten, the two of you actually learned to talk about what was going on between you without looking and acting like embarrassed teenagers. Somewhere in month eleven, she moved in.

There weren't any big speeches or declarations or promises of forever. Her lease was up and you were both tired of packing overnight bags. It seemed an easy decision to make and there wasn't even a real discussion about it. She just mentioned that she needed to sign a new lease and you said that was stupid and she said that she had to live somewhere and you said you had the room. Speaking in the silences between words was one of the talents you shared with each other and you were glad because even though you could say that you wanted her/needed her/loved her, you still didn't like to do it if you didn't have to.

You drafted Wilson and Mason and West into helping move her things into your apartment. Her living room furniture was donated to charity except for a few bookcases and a chair that would fit in your bedroom and you had a spare room where her bedroom set could go. It was filled with boxes of things you wanted to forget but had never had the energy to throw away. At least you said you hadn't had the energy. Maybe you hadn't had the heart. Golf clubs were shoved into one corner and there were three boxes just for boxing gloves, running shoes and shorts that were just a couple of inches too short.

Cameron had never looked into any of those boxes - had never lingered in that room – but she insisted on at least going through them to see if anything could be donated. Your face had that hard, tight look on it when she opened the first box. You expected some sort of sorrowful look followed up by words of condolence. Then you wondered why you were still underestimating her as she quickly sorted through things with efficiency, detachment and not a word of pity.

She asked a few questions about your running, because she was a runner too, but they were real questions about training and distances and marathons, not attempts to wheedle her way under your shell, because she had done that months ago and there hadn't been any wheedling needed. She was grinning as she asked if you'd ever knocked someone out, and you were smug when you told her that you had. You decided to hang your old gloves on the wall in your study.

Two days of packing and lugging furniture and toting boxes and it was done. You hadn't actually done any of the lugging or toting, but you reserved the right to act exhausted and put out while your employees, friend and lover lounged around your living room eating pizza and drinking beer. You made love that night and the next morning you bitched about how her toiletries were taking over your bathroom and by the next week it was as if she'd always been there.

Three months later and she was the one who took the phone call about your father's death.

You walked through the door and knew immediately that something was wrong. She had that look on her face, the one you hated seeing, and she'd pulled the bottle of scotch from the back of the cabinet and put it on the coffee table with a glass. You hadn't gotten good and drunk since that night after revealing your relationship to the whole hospital.

"What happened?" you asked her, getting straight to the point.

"Your mother called," she said and you sat down and poured a drink for yourself. She'd only put out one glass.

You hadn't told your parents that you were seeing someone and you damn sure hadn't told them that you were living with someone. They'd known about Stacy because that was back when your mother still insisted on visiting every Christmas, but you'd but an end to that after your infarction. It was bad enough putting up with your father when you could at least discuss sports and boast that you'd run a four minute mile – something he'd never done. You couldn't take having him stare at you, or, more commonly, your cane, and then spout off some platitude about being grateful for being alive.

So, if your mother had talked to Cameron, then the cat was out of the bag. You grimaced when you thought about the fact that you were sure she'd insisted on coming for a visit. Your parents had liked Cameron that one time they'd met. Great. You'd be subjected to a nice round of 'you shouldn't have waited so long to get together.'

"Wonderful," you said as you took a drink. "When should we expect them?"

Cameron sat down beside you and rested her hand on your knee. It was an affectionate, soothing gesture and you'd rarely shared those with her outside the bedroom.

"What?" you asked, more forcefully than intended, when she didn't seem inclined to speak.

"Greg…"

And that was when you knew that your father was dead.

That should have been the moment when your face crumpled in tears and you clung to Cameron for support as you bemoaned the fact that you would never get the chance to make things right. Your life wasn't a made for tv movie, however, and even though he was dead, you could still remember that you hated him, even if you couldn't think of all the reasons right that second. You didn't realize that you'd slammed back the rest of your drink, and glanced over, startled, when Cameron reached to refill it for you.

You let her. And then you didn't touch it. She gave you tacit permission to get completely wasted, but that wouldn't fix anything and you didn't know what you were trying to fix anyway. Your father had died. The father you hadn't ever cared about seeing again anyway.

It was just that when you hated someone, they were supposed to stay alive so that you could continue to hate them. Hating a dead person seemed pointless and petty.

"When's the funeral?" you asked.

You could tell that Cameron was taken aback by your lack of emotion, but she shouldn't have been. She knew how you felt about him even if she knew few of the details. Her streak of idealism still ran deep, apparently. She cleared her voice, and you could tell that she'd been near tears even if you hadn't been.

"This Saturday. New York," she said and then hesitated before adding, "You want…"

"Yeah," you answered, because you knew she was asking if you wanted her to go with you.

It was unclear to you why you wanted her to tag along to the funeral of someone you didn't give a crap about, but maybe it went back to misery loving company and anyway, your mother would want to meet her. You didn't need her support; you wanted her company. Explaining your motivations to yourself was something you'd had a lot of practice doing.

She was the one who told Cuddy that you were going to need Friday off. You knew she'd done it when Cuddy walked into your office looking primped and perfect as always in a low cut suit but with a sympathetic look on her face that you'd only seen a handful of times over ten years. She asked if there was anything you needed and you told her a month off clinic duty would be a good start. Your sarcasm had probably startled her. Like Cameron, she'd expected you to be acting sad and bereft. She rebounded quickly though, you had to give her credit for that. With a toss of her hair and an exasperated look, she told you not to press your luck. As she was leaving the office, she casually told you that she'd get someone to cover for you for the rest of the week.

The drive to upstate New York was a long one, and Cameron offered to take a shift driving, but you waved her off even though your thigh was throbbing after two hours on the road. It was almost dark by the time you got to your parents' house, but your mother must have been watching for you because she was at the door before you'd made it half way up the walkway.

She welcomed Cameron with open arms, just as you'd expected. You caught yourself wondering if he would have done the same and reminded yourself that you didn't give a damn what he would or would not have done. Anyway, it was a pointless question. Of course he would have loved Cameron. She was easy to love. He probably would have grilled her about why she wanted to be with a bitter, sarcastic bastard.

You stayed in a hotel that night despite your mother's insistence that there was plenty of room at the house. When you were eighteen, you'd sworn that you'd never live under his roof again, and dead or not, that was still his house. There were traces of him everywhere in it, from the framed medals above the fireplace to the shelves full of books about military history.

Funerals had always seemed pointless to you. A bunch of people crying and talking about someone who was already dead and couldn't hear their heartfelt words. You knew that they were supposed to be a comfort for the living, grieving friends and relatives, but wallowing in sorrow didn't seem like the healthiest way to get over grief. You chose not to see the irony in the fact that you'd spent hours, days, weeks, wallowing over the loss of your leg. You'd never given it a eulogy, so it didn't count.

Your mother sat beside you, crying silently during what you supposed was a very poignant farewell speech, given by your uncle. Cameron sat on your other side and sniffled every once in a while. You were undecided about whether or not you'd give her hell about the fact that she could cry over someone she'd never even known. You'd caught her getting teary during particularly touching Hallmark commercials, so her behavior wasn't completely unexpected.

After the funeral, everyone gathered at the house and you had to put up with relatives and your father's friends coming up to you and saying how sorry they were for your loss. For your mother's sake, you forced yourself to be civil. An hour into the sob-fest, you tried to hide in the bathroom, but Cameron found you.

"Lots of people," she said as she closed the door behind herself.

She was holding a slim barrette in her hand which told you how she'd picked the lock. You wondered if you should start sending her to break into patients' homes.

"He was a popular guy," you said, the sarcasm heavy in your voice.

You were sitting on the toilet seat lid and she perched on the edge of the tub and stared at you.

"If you're waiting for me to cry, you'll have a long wait."

"No."

"Then what?"

"Just looking. You have your mother's eyes."

That was true. People had always said that, right before they'd said that every other feature came from your father. You waited for the expected follow-up statement from Cameron, but it didn't come.

Instead she told you that people were starting to leave and that your mother was looking for you.

"I know you didn't like him," she said, standing up and putting her hand on the doorknob. "I even think I understand why… at least a little bit. But I do think he probably loved you. I don't know if that makes anything better or not. I think you can keep on hating him and still be sorry that you don't have a father anymore." She gave her patented half-shrug and slipped back out the door, shutting it again on her way.

You'd been expecting some attempt at sympathy and schmaltz, but you hadn't thought it would come in the form of just a few short sentences. If it had come a few months earlier, you would have been disconcerted by how well she could read you. You spent a few more minutes staring at the tiles and tapping your cane against the pedestal sink before going back to the living room to find your mother.

The plan had been to head back to Princeton that night, but your mother had powers of persuasion even you couldn't fight. You spent another night at the hotel and then spent the morning helping her go through some things and letting her talk your ear off. Cameron kept herself busy at a nearby shopping mall and even though you knew it was her attempt to give you some time with your mother, you were irrationally mad at her for abandoning you. She came back in time for you all to go out to a late lunch before leaving for Princeton and you concentrated on giving her the cold shoulder over Reubens and fries at a nearby deli.

Your mother cried when you left. She hugged you and hugged Cameron and hugged you again. You tried not to stiffen too much in her embrace, but spontaneous hugging would never come naturally to you. She made you promise to call her and it was one you figured you'd actually keep.

It was late by the time you got back to your apartment; too late for dinner, or anything else except bed. You'd kept up your silent routine with Cameron, because you were stubborn and didn't feel like talking. Maybe part of it was because you just needed to keep feeling angry about something. Your mother had given you the baseball your father had caught at a Mets game back when you were six. Holding it had made you remember that you hadn't always hated him. You shoved it to the back of your sock drawer as soon as you could.

Cameron should have said something about the silence; about how you shouldn't shut her out; about how you had no reason to be mad at her; about how she wouldn't stand for you treating her like crap. Instead, she emptied her overnight bag, pulled on a tank top and cotton shorts, brushed her teeth, washed her face and crawled into bed. You looked at her for a minute before leaving the room and heading for your piano.

When you limped back into the bedroom you didn't know if she'd be asleep or not. You hadn't exactly kept down the noise while you'd played. She was curled on her side and a light breeze from the open window ruffled the ends of her hair. You stripped off your clothes, along with your displaced feelings. Her presence had made the funeral bearable. You got into bed and lay there staring at the ceiling until she finally rolled over to face you, like you'd known she would.

"Good to be home," she said.

You nodded your agreement and then moved to kiss her hard on the lips. She drew in a quick breath, but that was the only sign of surprise from her. When you pulled back she stared at you just like she'd stared at you in your parents' bathroom. She understood and you were glad she was there.

"Good night."

"Good night," she echoed, and you closed your eyes knowing that she would be the first thing you'd see in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

I actually got a little bit teary as I was writing this, so I'm interested to hear what everyone else things. Thanks so much for all your reviews!

IV.

A year plus a month passed and you arrived home to find an invitation to Wilson's fourth wedding in your mailbox. You'd known it was coming. He'd even shown the sample invite to Cameron one night over Chinese food. You'd stayed pointedly disinterested.

Of course all of the details of the relationship had already played out before you because this time Wilson was marrying one of the doctors from pediatrics. You didn't know what the hell he was thinking getting involved and then so serious, so fast, but it was his usual modus operandi, so you shouldn't have been surprised. He had come to you for advice a few times, but you'd been circumspect at best. You hadn't wanted to tell him that you thought he was just priming himself for yet another divorce. At the same time, you'd cursed Cameron's influence on you because you were certain that's what made you think that fourth time might actually be the charm.

It had taken forty-odd years, but Wilson actually seemed to have moved past his need for needy people and picked a woman who instead shared his empathy, intelligence and humanitarianism. You didn't completely hate her, so that was a plus, and she didn't mind that he worked late, got too involved with his patients and liked to spend the occasional Sunday afternoon camped out on your sofa watching football. She also got along well with Cameron, leading you to be dragged into "double dating" situations which you'd sworn you'd never be uncool enough to engage in. At least the four of you stuck to smoky jazz clubs and monster trucks instead of the theater and ballet.

He hadn't bothered to ask you to be best man, because he'd known you would just turn him down, but although you weren't about to spell it out, you were happy for him.

At the same time, you sometimes looked at Cameron and wondered if she was thinking more than she was saying. She didn't have a ring or a proposal or a wedding date. You'd been together almost three years with no sign of commitment beyond the fact that you'd moved in together and hadn't gone down in flames yet. You were waiting for her to ask you where you thought the relationship was going.

She never did.

She bought a new dress for the wedding and nagged you into getting a new charcoal colored suit. Since she so rarely nagged you about anything (your snarkiness, your negative attitude, your Vicodin intake), you felt it was a small concession to make her happy. The suit looked good on you, and when the day of the wedding arrived, you pulled your fancier, silver-embellished cane from the back of the closet. You shouted at Cameron from the living room, telling her that you were going to be late if you didn't leave soon. Promptness wasn't something you really cared about, but weddings made you nervous and you needed to yell about something.

When she walked into the living room, you felt as stunned as you had that night of the charity poker tournament, years earlier. You were so used to seeing her every day, in her work clothes, in her sweats, in her tight little jeans and baggy pajamas, that you had forgotten exactly how beautiful she could look. You hoped that the smug look on your face wouldn't be too obvious during the wedding, but you couldn't help it if you thought she was ten times more attractive than the bride.

Her dress was made of something soft and flowing, which was appropriate for the outdoor ceremony. It was pale green, but not that hideous green your grandmother had always preferred for curtains and throw pillows. You were sure it had some trendy name like celery or sage dream, but it reminded you of the smell of spring. She smiled at you, that coy, shy little smile of hers that drove you crazy.

"Do I look all right?" she asked, as if she didn't know.

"You'll do," you told her.

A self-satisfied look spread across her face. Ah, there was the smugness you'd come to admire.

"By the drop-jawed expression on your face, I'd say that I'll more than 'do'," she said.

"Yeah, yeah. Hurry up or we'll be late."

"As if that would bother you," she said, and damn if she didn't know you, but you reminded yourself that after three plus years, of course she knew you.

She pulled a thin little shawl from the back of the closet and announced that she was ready. You held the door open for her so that you could get a good look at the back of her dress and her shapely little ass.

"Stop staring at my ass," she said as she tossed another smug grin over her shoulder.

You had a grin inching its way onto your face as you walked around the car and got in. Wilson had taken to saying that you and Cameron were like an old married couple when you bantered. Moments like this made you think he was right. If you already acted like an old married couple, then maybe Cameron really didn't care about making it official. That thought came as a relief.

It was a small wedding, with less than fifty people, and it was held outside under a simple chuppa draped with flowers and ivy. The rabbi gave some poignant remarks beyond the ceremonial words, and you were amazed that Cameron didn't start sniffling when Wilson and Mrs. Wilson Number Four gave their vows. The food was good and there wasn't a band or dj, so you didn't have to worry about Cameron trying to get you to dance. You didn't think she'd even attempt that, but better safe than sorry.

You actually had a good time, considering it was a wedding filled mainly with people you didn't know and didn't want to know. Sarah – Mrs. Wilson Number Four – barely flinched when you gave a toast saying that you hoped this one stuck. She hadn't known you that long, but long enough to expect something like that from you. You noticed that Cameron didn't even bother making apologies on your behalf. She just rolled her eyes and smirked at you indulgently. She ended up being the designated driver home, but you sobered up enough to make her scream her orgasm after divesting her of that green dress. You'd been thinking about doing that all evening, and when you finally collapsed next to her, exhausted, aching, and satisfied, you felt smug indeed.

Getting the wedding invitation hadn't surprised you, but Sarah's pregnancy did.

They announced it six months after the wedding, over dinner at your place, and you just sat there while Cameron stood up and hugged them both. Then she went into the kitchen to get apple juice to toast the new baby. It was the closest thing you had to champagne, since you still preferred your scotch, and Cameron only drank those girly wine-coolers.

Sarah was Cameron's age, give or take a year, so pregnancy hadn't been beyond the realm of possibility, but you had never pictured Wilson as the fatherly type. Honestly, you were still getting used to the fact that he seemed to be blissfully happy and hadn't so much as given a roving eye to any of the nurses. You drank down the apple juice and wished it was scotch.

Cameron was very excited about the baby. She and Sarah shopped for tiny clothes and tiny booties and whatever the hell other tiny things the kid would need. You started getting nervous again. She hadn't so much as dropped a hint about marriage since the wedding, but you were sure that now she was bound to start pushing. She was still young enough to have a child herself, and when you really thought about it you were shocked that she hadn't already sat you down to lay out her relationship demands. You had no idea what you would do when she made that move.

Then a month passed, and another, and she didn't say a word, and neither did you, and life went on as previously arranged, in comfortable companionship with a side of sarcastic wit when the mood struck you. You started to forget that you'd ever been worried.

When she told you she thought she might be pregnant, all of your earlier fears came flooding back.

It was a Friday night and you were all set to watch the baseball game on television when she walked into the room looking like death warmed over. She'd been sick for almost a week with some sort of stomach bug but you hadn't thought too much about it. Actually, you'd forced yourself not to think too much about it. If you let yourself get worried about losing her to some deadly disease every time she had a sniffle, you'd never sleep at night.

She stared at the television as she sat down beside you and you figured she was just going to watch the game, but then she tucked up one leg and angled herself towards you. That was your first clue that there was definitely a talk coming.

"Game's about to start," you told her which was shorthand code for "Game's about to start, so make it quick."

When her hand landed on your knee, you felt a knot form in your stomach and when you turned to look at her you could tell that she had a matching one in hers. You hit the mute button on the television remote.

"What?"

"Greg…" she started and you knew that whatever followed would not be good news. "I think I might be pregnant."

You stared at her. You didn't blink. You didn't speak. You didn't move.

"Greg?"

"You're on the pill."

Not only was she on a pill that had limited her periods to four times a year, she was also ridiculously anal about taking it at the exact same time every day. You did not want to be the one percent failure rate.

"I know that, but I don't feel right. I'm tired all the time, and this stomach bug won't go away and I've gained two pounds in the past week."

"So? You work too much, there's something going around, and you could use the extra weight."

She took a deep breath before she said, "I just took a home pregnancy test and I can't tell if it's positive or not. I'll get the blood test tomorrow."

You're not sure what idiocy pulled the next words from your mouth.

"Did you plan this?"

"What?" She reared back from you and her eyes went wide with shock and confusion.

"Simple question," you continued to press because your mouth was faster than the kill-switch in your brain.

"Why would you say something like that? Why would you even think it? No! No, I didn't plan anything!"

"Wilson's married. Now Sarah's pregnant. Are you telling me that doesn't make you jealous? That you don't wish you could trade places with her? See a little bump pushing out that flat stomach of yours?" Now you were just being needlessly mean, but it was all you could think to do. You were in shock, and snide was your default setting.

"No, I don't! I don't want a baby any more than you do. I've been perfectly happy the way things are. If you can't accept that, then you're the one with the problem." She stood up and paced in front of you. You had completely forgotten how angry she could get. You hadn't had a real fight in over a year.

Your mind finally kicked into gear and you held out your hand in a placating gesture.

"I'm sorry," you told her, because those were the words you were supposed to say.

She just turned and looked at you with an expression of betrayal on her face. It made you want to get up and grab her and say the words again with sincerity, but you didn't. You just sat there staring up at her.

"You're not sorry," she said. "But I am."

It wouldn't have surprised you if she'd kicked you out, but maybe she still thought of the place as being more yours than hers, or maybe she just wanted the change of scenery for herself. She packed an overnight bag and left without saying anything except that she'd be at the Wilsons'. Your last thought before she shut the door was that you hoped she didn't tell them about the baby.

The next day was spent in avoidance. If you were in the office, then she was in the lab. If you were in the lab, then she was in the clinic. You wanted to complain to Wilson about the childishness of it all, but he'd given you a deathglare when you'd seen him in the cafeteria. Obviously he was siding with Cameron, although you didn't think she'd told him the reason for the fight. He would have moved past deathglare to actual physical harm if he'd known everything. Impending fatherhood had made him even more compassionate than usual.

Five o'clock rolled around and you were still in your office. On any other patient-less day, you would have dragged Cameron out of the hospital by four. You saw no reason to hurry home.

She paged you at five-thirty and said to meet her in one of the clinic rooms. You beat her there by two minutes. A piece of paper fluttered in her hand as she opened the door and walked in.

"I had a nurse draw the blood and gave it to the lab without my name on it," she told you. "I haven't looked at it yet."

Then she handed you the results because it seemed she wanted to make you even more uncomfortable. You'd had a lot of time to think during the night, since sleep hadn't been on your agenda, and you still didn't know how you felt about anything, but you knew that you'd been an asshole to her. You looked in her eyes and hoped that she saw some glimmer of apology in yours. She gave a little nod and you guessed that was as close as you were going to come to forgiveness. You looked down at the paper in your hands and skimmed through the lines of information down to the one that counted.

"You're not pregnant," you said, and were then surprised by the sinking feeling in your stomach. You hadn't wanted a baby, but faced with the fact that you weren't going to get one, you were suddenly sad.

Apparently Cameron felt the same way because when you looked at her, you saw her stoic façade slowly crumbling and a muffled sort of sob pushed its way out of her chest. She quickly covered her mouth with one hand and tried to wipe away her tears with the other. For once, your instincts didn't tend towards sarcasm or pretended indifference. You rushed forward and pulled her into your arms. Your cane was going to leave a bruise on her lower back but you didn't think she'd mind.

You surprised yourself again by telling her that maybe, maybe you could try on purpose. If she really wanted to. You weren't completely opposed. But she shook her head. She said that you both work too much, and she's already had one miscarriage (you didn't know this and you wanted to know more but know better than to ask while she was already crying) and she doesn't think she could deal with another one. Anyway, not being completely opposed to a baby isn't the same thing as wanting one, and she's not about to start forcing you into some mold. She said she was crying for a dream that had died a long time ago, and not for the reality. You weren't sure you believed her, but knew better than to press. You'd learned a few things over the years even if you didn't usually put them into practice.

After she stopped crying, you told her that you wanted her to come home. You said that you were sorry for what you'd said the night before, and you really meant it. You admitted that you were the ass, and that you'd been afraid that she needed more than you could give her. That was why you'd said those things. It was more of an admission of guilt than you'd ever given anyone else.

"Next time you could just try asking me what's on my mind," she said, her head still pressed against the front of your shoulder.

"Not really my style," you said, and you had a feeling she was rolling her eyes as you said it.

On the way home, you picked up food from her favorite restaurant and then the two of you had a carpet picnic in the living room in front of the television. You even agreed to watch her favorite movie, an old black and white Bette Davis pictures. You didn't agree not to mock it, however, but she laughed when you did, so you figured it was okay. She was quieter than usual and when you went to bed she just curled up and didn't give you her usual kiss on the cheek, which you always wiped away with a cry of 'Girl cooties!'.

You rolled over and let your hand stray to her side of the bed, landing on her hip. Your thumb stroked over the soft cotton of her nightgown as you concentrated on the warmth beneath your palm.

"Allison," you said, using the name you still rarely called her outside the throes of passion. You waited until you could tell she was listening. "I'm sorry," you told her.

"You said that this afternoon," she said.

"Not for that," you corrected her. "I'm sorry for everything else." For whatever baby she'd lost, for the baby she'd never have, for all the dreams she'd watched fade away.

She let out a very long breath and you were sure there were a few tears with it. When she twisted her body around to face you her eyes were bright.

"Thank you," she said, "but I meant what I said last night and this afternoon. I'm happy now. I'm happy with you. With our life."

You moved your hand from her hip to her cheek, and when you kissed her, you hoped she knew you felt the same, because you'd never been very good with words like those.


	5. Chapter 5

**...and here it is... the last part of this story. I have really, really enjoyed writing it and working with such a different style from my usual. I'm very happy that it seems to have struck a note with a lot of readers, and I'm looking forward to hearing what everyone thinks of this final chapter. Thank you all so much for your comments! **

V.

Rebecca Louise Wilson was born in the middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of the summer. Her first name was traditionally Jewish, and the second had belonged to Sarah's favorite grandmother and so the bestowing of it fulfilled another Jewish tradition. Renewed faith in marriage had gone hand in hand with renewed faith in God, for Wilson. You weren't sure if that was because he finally saw a sort of reason for all of his previous failed relationships or because he felt that his happiness had to be owed to a higher power. You yourself were still mired in a decided agnosticism despite your quietly contented home life.

You'd only placed your bet the week before, but you won the hospital's betting pool. Cameron wanted to know how you could possibly have guessed the date, especially since the baby was almost two weeks early. You told her that you'd noticed that Sarah was walking differently when the four of you got together for your usual weekly dinner, and you had been able to tell that the baby had shifted down into position. She gave you a smile that said she was amazed and proud of yet another of your weird skills, but she rolled her eyes as well. She'd chosen the following Thursday for her bet.

A week later and Wilson was walking into work looking more tired than you'd ever seen him. He also looked happier than you'd ever seen him. The sight made you happy too, but you couldn't resist telling him that he smelled like spit-up and looked like crap. Cameron heard you and smacked you on the shoulder before asking Wilson how Sarah was doing. You weren't sure when public touching had become acceptable, even if that touching only came in the form of playful hits.

You had always maintained that you were not good with children, but no one else seemed to believe that and you and Cameron became Rebecca's usual babysitters. The little Wilsonette was cute enough, and she was way too young to talk back, so you didn't really mind. She seemed to like you well enough and her warm little body fit snugly into the crook of your arm. You made Cameron take care of all of the diaper changes.

After your second gig, you finally asked her about her miscarriage.

The look on her face told you that she was surprised to hear you ask. The two of you were not the kind of couple who sat around reciting your personal histories. When circumstances warranted, you might relate a piece of the past, but that was it. You knew that she had a brother she rarely talked to, but you didn't know why. Her parents were both dead but you just knew that her mother had suffered a heart attack. She knew that your father had bought you your first motorcycle when you were sixteen, but she didn't know that he'd taken it away when you'd gone out for lacrosse instead of football your senior year.

She ignored your question for the rest of the evening, but when you got into bed and turned out the lights, she started to talk. You'd expected some tale about how she'd gotten pregnant just before her husband relapsed and had then miscarried just after he died, but that wasn't the story she told. Instead she talked about how she'd still been grieving six months after his death and had been stressed out with college and med school applications and all the people around her who had their happy lives spread out before them when she felt like hers was already buried in the ground. She'd gone out drinking.

No, she'd gone out to get drunk because she'd needed the release and she hadn't wanted to think anymore and when she'd woken up naked in her RA's bed, she'd barely been able to make it to the bathroom before throwing up. They'd agreed not to mention it again, and when she'd discovered she was pregnant, she hadn't told him. She'd been overwhelmed with guilt, because good women didn't go around sleeping with people six months after crying over their husband's coffin. Intellectually, she knew that her guilt and grief hadn't caused her to lose the baby, but you could hear in her voice that logic didn't always win when emotions were involved.

The whole time she was talking, she just stared up at the ceiling and somehow you knew that she didn't want you to touch her, because she was afraid of breaking. There were no tears, but when she finished telling you everything, she snuggled up to your side, which she never did unless you'd just had sex. You moved your arm so that it was draped over her shoulder instead of pinned to your side and when she asked you not to ever mention her baby again, you promised that you wouldn't. You wondered why you'd ever seen her as weak.

For the next few days, Cameron was a little bit quieter than usual, but by the weekend, she was back to herself again and you were able to let go of the thin thread of guilt you'd been carrying. You met the Wilsons for Sunday brunch and Cameron held and played with Rebecca just like she always did.

The days flowed on from one to the next with an almost monotonous regularity. You liked it. The patients continued to challenge your diagnostic skills at the hospital, and Cameron challenged you at home. You wouldn't have thought that you'd be the type to actually settle down with someone, but then you remembered that you'd really enjoyed your years with Stacy, aside from the fighting and then the whole leg-mangling business. Sometimes you wondered if she'd ever found a measure of happiness for herself.

Usually such thoughts came when you were playing the piano and Cameron was puttering around the apartment, the two of you creating the perfect snapshot of a normal couple, despite the fact that you were each far from normal. The thoughts were always followed up with deep gratitude to fate, karma, God or whatever other unseen forces had put the two of you together. After you'd pondered your way into a corner, you'd get up from the piano and pull Cameron into the bedroom just because you could.

Summer had almost completely given way to Autumn when Cuddy appeared in your office with a new patient file and a request.

"You know I asked Cameron to take Shaw's position up in Immunology," she said, one hand perched on her hip.

"Yup. She told me."

"So you also know that she turned me down."

"We do live together," you reminded her with a smirk. "We even talk sometimes."

She huffed out a breath in frusration. "Yes, I'm well aware of your living arrangements," she said. "I'm the one who had to keep the board of directors from going ballistic when they found out."

You grinned as you remembered that it had been an amusing couple of days seeing her slightly frazzled as she tried to convince the board that you and Cameron really worked well together and would continue to act professionally.

"I'm going to guess that the little trip down memory lane isn't really your reason for bringing all of this up," you told her, mind slipping back from your reverie.

"No, not really. I was hoping that you would convince her to take the job."

"And why should I do that? I like having her here. She's an asset to the department and I don't think you'll argue with that."

"Of course not, but she's also not needed here."

She must have seen you start to bristle, your hand tightening on your cane, because she quickly went on.

"You already have two other doctors and you can easily hire another. If I have to look outside the hospital for Shaw's replacement, it will take months and then months more before they get up to speed with the hospital's way of doing things."

"I don't want another doctor. I'm quite content with her, and she's quite content being here."

Cuddy stared at you and you got a pang in your stomach because you knew she was about to say something you didn't want to hear.

"She's wasting herself here, House. She could be head of Immunology inside ten years, but if she stays in this department she's always going to be just another one of your underlings. Now I know that you hate change, but I hadn't realized that she's the same way. If you don't push her out of the nest, she's never going to learn to fly on her own."

Your expression twisted into one of exasperation. "Is this our very-special-episode?" You asked, mockingly. "Because that flowery prose sounds like something direct from Lifetime television."

"I'm serious, House."

And you really hated her at that moment because despite your words you knew she was right. Cameron was an excellent doctor. She deserved more than second rate status in the smallest department in the hospital even if it was the department with the highest cure rate. Cuddy left, but her words lingered behind and you took out your frustrations by tossing your oversized tennis ball against the wall as hard as you could.

Cameron came by half an hour later to tell you that your patient was responding to treatment. She took one look at your face and asked what was wrong. You hated that she could read you so well. Of course your newly-foul mood wasn't exactly well-hidden.

"I think you should take that job upstairs."

"What? We talked about it last week and agreed that I should just stay here," Cameron said, her eyebrows doing that little wrinkling thing they always did when she was confused.

"Yeah, well we were probably too hasty."

You tried to make it sound casual, but that didn't work, and you ended up telling her about Cuddy's visit. She was upset because she'd thought that everything was settled and Cuddy was right, she hated change just as much as you; maybe more. She also didn't like Cuddy going over her head and the flash in her eyes told you that Cuddy could expect a visit from a pissed off Cameron in the near future. She seemed to be ignoring everything you said, in favor of pacing the floor and muttering her reasons for staying. When you said that you didn't want her throwing her career away just so that she could stay safe and comfortable, that was when she turned those flashing eyes on you.

Luckily, you'd been expecting that and you followed up with a few words about how she was too good a doctor to stay working for you and that she should be having other doctors learn from her. She stopped right in front of you and looked at you without saying anything, but her expression had changed from one of anger to one of pride. You realized then that you'd never given her so much direct praise at one time. She told you she was going to talk to Cuddy, and then she reached forward and lightly touched your shoulder before quickly leaving the office. An hour later, she came back and told you that she'd accepted the new position. You told her not to let the promotion go to her head and sent her to check on the patient and find out where West and Mason had hidden themselves.

Cameron transferred two weeks later and at the hospital, she handled the transition better than you did.

She easily moved into the Immunology department, strengthening relationships she already had with the other doctors and enjoying the different atmosphere. Dealing with a whole floor of patients was definitely a change from the one patient a week routine in your department.

You couldn't get used to not seeing her at her desk. During differential sessions, you kept looking at the seat she'd always occupied. You were sharper and even more sarcastic, and you went through fifteen fellowship applicants before finally settling on her replacement.

At home your roles reversed and she was the one who acted snipier and irritable. You were both used to bantering during the day and working out some of your frustrations that way, but now she was back to being nice all day long and when you tossed good-natured barbs her way over dinner, she shot them back at you with real annoyance. The big fight came a month later and was complete with stomping feet, shouting and slamming doors. You ended up storming out and holing up at the bar down the street.

She found you there two hours later and sidled up beside you.

You were still nursing your second drink.

"Come to yell some more?" you said snidely.

"No," she said and waved the bartended over so that she could order a disgustingly sweet drink.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Talking."

"So talk."

"It's sort of a two-player sport. You have to talk too," she said. Her drink arrived and she took a small sip.

"You've been a real bitch," you told her. Not, perhaps, the best way to open the conversation.

To your surprise, she replied with, "I know I have."

With that admission from her, you felt you owed her a little something as well.

"I probably shouldn't have insulted your cooking," you said, and it was still hard to believe that one ill-timed remark had caused a fight of epic proportions.

"You were teasing. I overreacted," she said, staring down into the pink depths of her drink.

"You've been doing that a lot lately. So is it me or is it work?" You were hoping for a certain answer.

"Neither, really. It's just me. I got used to things being a certain way, and now it's taking me a while to adjust." She toyed with her straw for a minute. "Maybe the change at work has made me wonder if everything else is going to change too," she admitted.

"Do you want it to change?" you asked her, watching her face carefully for any revealing twitches or other unspoken signs. If she was planning on leaving, you didn't want to be the last to know.

"No I don't," she said, the words strong and definitive.

You nodded and swallowed down the rest of your drink. It burned a path down your throat that felt like relief.

"Good," you said, your voice slightly quieter than hers because big declarations weren't your style.

She only took a few more sips of her drink before hopping down from her stool.

"Are you ready to go home?" she asked you and you tossed down enough money to cover all the drinks and unhooked your cane from the edge of the bar.

"Yeah, I'm ready," you told her.

She slipped her hand into yours as you walked out the door. She'd never done that before. It felt nice.

Things settled down after that, much to your relief, but you looked at her slightly differently. Maybe it was because you didn't see her at work as often, but you appreciated her more at the hospital and at home. You made excuses to steal coffee from her department and paged her to go to lunch more often. When you were able to call her in for a consult, you knew that it would be a good case. You were still a snarky bastard to her most of the time, but at home, the bantering was congenial again. The fact that she could toss a sarcastic remark right back at you had always made your verbal sparring more fun.

You'd completely forgotten why you'd always said that a relationship with her would never work. Wilson liked to give you a hard time about that. You stole lunch money from his wallet for revenge.

As the nights grew cooler, dinner and television in front of a crackling fire became routine. You'd ordered Chinese food, and the boxes were still scattered on the coffee table as the two of you sat close together and watched the tv. You only gave some token grumbling when the show du jour was of the distinctly feminine variety. You usually concentrated more on Cameron than on the television when one of her shows was playing. You liked seeing her face when it was open and unguarded, away from the hospital where a professional mask was almost always in place. You'd memorized the number of light freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. They only really showed when she smiled. You loved her smile. You loved her, although you hardly ever said it.

She was pressed up against your right side, her thigh bleeding warmth into your scarred one. Over the previous winter, you'd made a remark about close proximity keeping the heating bills down and used it as an excuse when you needed to feel her close to you. Neither of you bothered with excuses anymore although you were still far from demonstrative outside the bedroom. Small gestures counted for more.

You shifted so that you could reach into your pocket, and she assumed you were pulling out your pills, and kept her attention on the screen. When you pulled her hand onto your leg, she just smiled and lightly curled her fingers around yours.

You had never planned on needing her. You hadn't even wanted her. Then, even after you had her, you'd always just been comfortable with the way things were, and content to have them go on that way for the foreseeable future. You'd never kidded yourself with thinking that what you had together was some never ending love. You still didn't believe that, but when you slipped the ring onto her finger, it felt like the most natural thing in the world and you watched it sparkling in the firelight and waited for her reaction.

She looked finally looked at you then, with her mouth half open, and a hundred unsaid words on her tongue. You uttered the same word you'd said to keep her from leaving a lifetime ago. Just one word. It was all you could think of and it encompassed everything you wanted from her.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked like she thought she might be dreaming

"Consider this insurance," you told her, rubbing your thumb across the back of her hand.

"I'll stay," she said, and you watched the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes and reached up one hand to brush them away.

"Good," you said, ignoring the fact that your voice didn't sound quite as strong as usual.

Her arms came up to wrap around your neck and she kissed you deeply, thoroughly, lovingly, while you followed her lead and ignored the pain in your thigh in favor of pulling her onto your lap. When the kiss ended, she whispered that she loved you, and for once, you echoed it back to her. She closed her eyes, nestling her head under your chin, and you wondered what Wilson would say when you asked him to be your best man.


End file.
